


Lay your body next to mine

by BurningLostStars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Possessive Sex, Rough Sex, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 23:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12069294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningLostStars/pseuds/BurningLostStars
Summary: "She, who walks the floors of Hell, finds the key to the gates of get own Heaven, buried there like a seed."





	Lay your body next to mine

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a sort of follow-up to my previous one shot Danse Macabre, but you can read this as a stand-alone fic.
> 
> A special thanks to my beautiful beta [Ridiculosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridiculosity). She's my personal mug of delicious hot chocolate, keeping me company during these long rainy days... I love you, dear ♥

The little, quiet park near the hospital is beautiful these days, she thought.  
She was sitting on a wood-scented, creaky bench; a pink and white stain in the green and dark painting of grass and pale flowers.  
She breathed, exhaled slowly with eyes closed, tasting the strong scent of zinnias, trefoils and verbena coming from the adjacent flowerbeds that lighted up the concrete in a blaze of colours.  
Not every section of the park was quite so handsome, obviously.  
But she and Jim from IT had their first kiss on this bench, hidden in the warm folds of the night. It was their second date.  
After the usual coffee in the hall they just left the hospital together and talked, talked, talked. About what - she couldn't even remember. Only fragments of blurry events, childhood memories, silly jokes, the boring routine in the IT department.  
All lies.  
And then they just sat on that same bench, looked at the pale stars that pierced the sky and kissed.  
His lips were so soft and sweet against hers, and Molly thought about whispered poems and lovely prayers and all that stuff that fairy tales tell about little girls that fall in love with little boys. They live happily ever after, those stories say, all thanks to a True Love kiss.  
But it was all too perfect to be real. Just as the most beautiful stories have always been.

 _Thump_.

She freezed at the harsh sound of something (someone?) knocking lightly on the bench.  
Didn't even dare to open her eyes.  
She just stayed still, like a cold breath in the air. Waiting.

 _Thump_.

She stood up and scouted around with wide, worried eyes all over the place, looking for black shiny hair and a wolfish, always-too-bright smile. Hoping, even.

But she was just surrounded by noisy leaves that singed on their branches, all painted red by the first lights of the sunset, a handful of vanishing and shiny pearls of blood stuck to the trees.

She was alone.

*****

When Molly walked into her flat, closed the door and put the keys into the bowl, she just wanted to lie down in her bed and pretend to sleep.  
How long she's been like this, living a tissue papered life, a bidimensional existence made of remorse, regret and millions and millions of sick "what if" and "why" and "I loved him, god I loved him and I cut his skin, touched his bones", repeated over and over again?  
Jim Moriarty's body was such anatomical art, she could assure, a decaying block of marble dusted with pallor mortis; when Molly pulled out the tray and looked at his face, after Sherlock's fall, laid out as it was she could hardly see the sharply little pieces of his shattered cranium. His brown eyes were painfully open, thinly-veiled by an almost transparent mist, fixed into the void. All the burning, fiery fire that coloured those almost black hole irises was out. Extinguished. And if she covered them long enough to forget that under the gloved skin of her hand those eyes would have continued to stare at nothing forever, Molly could act like he was just sleeping.  
In the end Mycroft's men simply carried him away, hiding the unclaimed body under six feet of dirty ground mixed with chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation. A nude gap in the middle of a little-known grove just outside the city.  
She missed him.  
After all, that once-alive body was the only real, genuine thing about Jim Moriarty that she truly knew. When they were together, living their cotton-sugary lie - she learned every curve of him, remembered by heart the alternating convexity and concavity of his chest, every single muscle that spasmed at every strong thrust of his between her thighs. The little, funny pile of skin under his right eye, all those wrinkles that drew soft lines on either side of his mouth when he smiled at her and laughed with her and kissed her, the minty taste of his tongue around hers and the mighty strength of his hands when he pushed her roughly against the sheets, taking her like he was winning her, claiming her soul.  
Now all of this sounded so distant, spread out in that messy crowd of memories that was her mind.  
The apartment was silent.  
And Molly was used to silence, she really was, but this kind of silence was unusually sinister.  
"Toby?" she cried, but there was no reply.  
No sound of little kitten steps kissing the floor, no purring, no mewing.  
Molly searched the kitchen and the bathroom, finding nothing. And then she tried the bedroom.  
The door creaked as she entered. It was dark inside, the whole room illuminated only by the few streetlights placed out the window. It was like descending into a thick, moisty pit. Something unfamiliar, unconnected with reality. A nightmare.  
And then she saw a long man's shadow spread against the front wall.  
She remained still, fighting for a gulp of breath that didn't come.  
The shadow didn't move.  
And just when her blood was reaching again to her brain and her voice was going back to scream at the top of her lungs...the shadow was gone.  
She finally switched on the light.  
The window was left wide open. And, on the top of her bed, there was a bouquet of delicate white trefoils.  
She had to hold the sheets to not fall and hitting the floor at a dead drop.  
Those flowers...she have recognized them.  
Tiny, fragile petals that grew up all around Jim's gravesite.  
She even had brought some of them home after visiting him, put their thirsty stems in the water of her favorite vase. They lighted up the monotony of her parlour, she told to herself. It wasn't a way to have _him_ home again. Or so she liked to believe.  
Then a noise startled her, but it was just Toby. He had been outside all the time, probably strolling on the roof of the building.

*****

Their third date was in a coffee shop between her flat and the hospital, an anonymous and ordinary hole-in-the-wall place with lumpy metal seats and tacky prints probably ordered online. Bad coffee, casual food and dull background music. From there, they got to her flat and spent the rest of the night watching crap telly, throwing pop corn against each other and having sex on every surface of the apartment.  
She was drunk on closeness and that sparkling, youthful sensation given by hot skin under her nails and lovely eyes searching just for hers and a warm, lovely man all to herself.  
Now, getting back to this place sounded like a pilgrimage.  
She chose a table, ordered coffee and pastries and sat there, waiting and waiting and then falling finally asleep, after countless sleepless nights expecting miracles.  
She woke when the dawn light began to shine out the window glass behind her back. No one dared to wake her up or ask her to leave.  
The soft trefoils flowers that lied in her fist were starting to fade.  
And she was too afraid to visit Jim again, picking other living flowers from that black painted ground that was his grave.  
She sighed and reached for the gone cold coffee, putting enough sugar to make her heart beat faster.

 _Thump_.

"Thought you preferred your coffee black, dear. I must have guessed wrong."

Molly let out a loud scream and the white cup crashed on the floor in a million charred pieces, slicing lighty the skin of her ankles, forming a dark and stinky pool all around the seat.  
In front of her there was no one.  
But a new bouquet of little white flowers was shining against the cheap wood of the table, grinning at her like human teeth.

*****

From that day he wandered through Molly's life as he pleased, showed up at random times, in unusual places, met her in her frenzied, soppy sleep; Molly wanted badly to unflesh him again, find his secret heart, even if she knew perfectly well that it was already eaten away.  
Her favorite vase in the parlour was not empty anymore.

*****

He came inside again. It was a pale night, nothing but car sounds and flickering streetlights down the road, and Molly was naked under her blanket, on her back, legs spread up like an offering.

Molly begged for things she's never heard herself say, crude, unmentionable things. Things Jim fulfilled filthily.  
Face mashed into her own sweaty pillow, mouthing shamelessly in the air, Molly couldn't see a thing.  
She was a sobby, weakened mess on the bed, more and more wet with every thrust Jim gives behind her, bones shifting pleasantly, sharp hips on her skin, painful fingers holding her down, loving her hard.  
"You helped him survive." Jim said in her ear, low, fucking her even harder .  
Molly's eyes rolled to their whites just hearing it, skin going chilled, then fevered. She made a muffled noise, her best reply, nodding frantically, sighing hotly.  
"But you had no idea I was ready to die too, in order to kill him."  
Jim pulled her apart, touched the overly warm and dark pulse between her legs, damp and spread so wide around his thick cock, hands like hot welts where they touch, and Molly burned and burned and burned.  
"Yes," Molly moaned, because she did.  
Jim got her by the hips now, all blind thrusts and grasping fingers, leaving a trail of wet, hard kisses from her ear to her sweaty, bird-boned shoulder.  
"That day, after the fall, after I opened you and saw your _heart_ under all that broken skin...I begged you to come back to me." she choked out "I waited."  
"You're still waiting," Jim said, tapping each knob up Molly's spine like the keyboard of a piano "What if I couldn't come back to you, not like that, not like how you want," Jim asked, bright teeth against her neck, and Molly shivered, all muscles trembling under his touch, and finally came with a scream.

*****

Molly went as soon as the morning called her, went directly into the woods that hid Jim's remains. When she got there, she was alone, and she kneeled over the dirty ground, picking out the last of the white trefoils flowers, putting them in her hair like a thin crown.  
Molly waited. Molly will always wait.  
And then two familiar and vicious hands punched through the dirt, pulling Molly down and through the scented soil.  
She smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> white trefoils flowers: keeping a promise (from "The language of flowers" by Vanessa Diffenbaugh)


End file.
